Sit on my lap, dearie! Redux
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Prompted by an adorable reviewer: "More, more, more, please! [re: "Sit on my lap, dearie!"] Okay, so Rumple is sitting on the couch in the library. Belle sits on his lap to read an ancient book she found. They discover it's a detailed "pleasure manual." So they end up trying some of the things in the book. She does not have to be on his lap for all of them."


Rumplestiltskin meditates on the licking flames, rising and crackling within the library's stone hearth. High above him, on a wooden ladder, Belle is selecting a book for him to read aloud this evening. "Your voice is so wonderfully expressive," she had explained to him, the first time she asked him to join her in the library late one evening. And so they had begun a habit of reading for a spell after dinner, sometimes late into the night, if she begged, and he has no deals to attend to. It's grown more difficult to refuse her-_anything_ really, of late. Ever since she twined her arms around his neck in the forest: a spontaneous, affectionate reward for showing mercy to that bastard Robin Hood.

He watches her, out of the corner of his gleaming, amber eye. Of course she already has a stack of four or five books, balanced in one arm while her other hand skims over the shelf, hunting for more. (She likes to bring him a selection, spread them out before him while he sits on the little settee by the fire, allowing him to make the final choice.) She should learn to be more careful. Just yesterday morning, she tripped over her long skirts while bringing him his breakfast plate. The cracked china had cut deeply into her hand before he had time to arrest her fall with magic. Belle had watched him, mesmerized, as he smoothed his fingers over the laceration, healing her palm an instant. "Be more careful," he had admonished curtly, dropping her hand and walking away abruptly when he saw the warm look in her eyes. That particular look would lead nowhere sane or good.

From across the library comes a tremendous crash, and Rumplestiltskin snaps up his head and sees Belle laying in a heap near the base of the ladder with books scattered all around. He is at her side in an instant, but it is an instant too late. Tears are pooling in her impossibly blue eyes and spilling over her cheeks. She is badly hurt.

"Oh sweetheart...show me where you're hurt, love." He murmurs these endearments without intent or comprehension as he carries her to the couch by the fire and settles her on his lap. He hasn't used honest endearments since he was a young bridegroom many lifetimes ago. He notices that she still has one book clutched tightly in her hand, a slender volume with gilt lettering across the cover.

"My knee and ankle, Rumple." Belle grits her teeth against shooting pain and yanks up her skirt and pantalets. Her knee is already discoloring and her ankle-well, it is a bad break. He smooths his fingers along each injury, and Belle releases a shaky breath. "Anywhere else, love?"

She shakes her head no and drops her forehead to rest against his cheek. "Thank you. I'm alright now."

She's alright now. An unworthy, selfish part of him wishes that she weren't. Wishes he could keep her here for comfort, nestled snug upon his lap forever, the world and his deals and the Dark Curse be damned. "You must be more careful," he breathes into her hair. "It would be far too much work to train up another maid when I've only just gotten you broken in." She laughs a shuddery little laugh and leans more tightly against him.

"What is that you're still holding onto?" Rumplestiltskin takes the volume from her hand. "Poetry, I think," Belle replies, her voice now muffled by his shoulder, "But not in any language I've ever seen before...and, Rumple, what are they doing in the illustrations?" Belle points to an open page.

He is dumbstruck. His little caretaker has managed to unearth a volume of erotic poems. With etchings to illuminate every libidinous verse. Her finger is touching a particularly lascivious picture. A lovely maid has gone down on her knees before her rather well-endowed young lover, whose back is against the trunk of a large tree. They are in a sun-dappled forest, and he wears a look of ecstasy upon his face while his lady love trails her tongue over his swollen member.

Rumplestiltskin shuts the little book as quickly as he is able, but Belle's question remains, floating in the air between them.

"They are...lovers," he says at last.

"But what was she doing with her mouth, Rumple? Why was she kneeling? Why did he look like that?"

Gods, give him strength. "She was...giving him pleasure."

"Oh." Belle considers this new information, and Rumplestiltskin shifts uncomfortably beneath her. "How long has it been since you've had pleasure, Rumple?" She meets his dark eyes with a steady, frank gaze.

_"Gods, Belle-"_ he chokes out, wanting to crawl out of his skin, to be anywhere but in this dim room beneath this innocent girl. Against the softness of her bottom and skirts, he is rock hard and straining. Any little movement, and he'll surely disgrace himself.

She slides from his lap onto her knees before him, gently spreading his leather-clad legs apart with her hands. Belle reaches for the laces to his britches. "I want to give you pleasure," she breathes, and he freezes, still as stone, as her little hand dips between his legs and draws him out slowly-as carefully as if he is made of spun glass.

Belle leans forward and brushes her pink lips against his tender tip before mercifully drawing him into the warm wetness of her mouth. He feels her slippery tongue stroke up his length, hissing in agony, and she pulls away to ask him, "Will you show me what to do, Rumple?"

_"You don't need to do this,"_ he tries telling her in a broken voice, but then her lips and mouth are on him again, and he feels his hips move up to meet her against his will. She understands, capturing his hips between her hands, so that she can more easily feel the rhythm his body needs, easing him into and out of her perfect mouth slowly and then faster when he loses his mind and all restraint. He begins to gasp out nonsense toward the end: _"Please!"_ and _"Oh, Gods!"_ and _"I need to...please, I need to…"_

No one has gone down on her knees for him before. No woman has taken him into her mouth before. He feels his release approaching and tries to push her away, but Belle holds tight, urging him onwards with her flickering tongue and wet lips and hot mouth. He climaxes with a primal cry, torn from the back of his throat, and Belle holds him within her mouth until the last tremor passes.

Afterwards, she tenderly rearranges his clothing and climbs back up onto his lap, careful not to cause him any discomfort. She wipes at the wetness on his shimmering cheeks, and he leans forward, burying his face against her neck. _"Thank you,"_ he whispers. _"Thank you, love."_


End file.
